


Anchor

by abblepie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Character Study, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Wings, not super fluffy south downs but still, or at the very least a hopeful one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 21:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abblepie/pseuds/abblepie
Summary: Sometimes all that trauma catches up to Crowley.This time, an angel is there to help.





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> I started this piece off with the intent to add it to my Sudfield/South Downs series, but things got a bit off track. The tone and style are both very different, for one, (didn't really feel like a Footnotes kind of story) and it was quite a bit shorter. Also, some of my headcanons between the two of them didn't line up. On top of that I ended up addressing some of these thoughts in a much lighter way in another piece of writing I'm working on that _will_ be in that series, so I decided to send this one out alone.
> 
> I also wasn't sure what to rate it? But there is some graphic imagery and generally upsetting (at least for me) themes so I decided to make it Mature just in case.

Life wasn’t fair, always. It took a while to get used to it, but Crowley had. He’d had six thousand years to get used to it.

Crowley was doing better. Truly, he was. But that didn’t make things fair.

_He was a demon._ That was a fact. _He hadn’t_ meant_ to Fall._ That was also a fact.

Facts had never been his problem, though, or his strong suit. It was _questions_ that led to his Fall. Innocent questions, questions with no clear answers. 

_How did this come to be?_

_Where did _You_ come from, then?_

_Why do we exist?_

**TO WORSHIP**

To worship through Creation, through Making, through Being. Their very existence had been worship, once.

And then, of course,

_Why did they have to Fall?_

That was the final straw, really. He’d missed his friends, that was all, and he asked this over and over until he ached and trembled on his knees. 

His answer came in a ring of burning fire, in an eternity long free fall, and in the millennia to follow.

In short, he never _got_ and answer.

The questions didn’t end after he Fell, but he learned to ask them with a sneer. With a stiff upper lip. He learned to expect the answer. _Because that’s the way it is._

He’d learned to not care. He’d rebuilt himself.

Still, sometimes his cracks bled through.

_“Fuck!”_

Crowley writhed on his bedsheets, spine curling in on itself like the snake he was. He swore through his sobs, when he had the breath. This hollow body of his didn’t need to breathe to survive, but it did require air to cry and scream. He felt so close to discorporating that if he couldn’t do that right now, he might be taking the free fall back home in the next few moments.

Another shuddering breath, and then:

_”What the _fuck_ did I do wrong?_

Nobody heard him. That wasn’t surprising.

That’s what had hurt most, After. It wasn’t the broken wings. 

It had seemed that way, at first, but they’d healed more or less correctly. After his first excruciating molt, even the itching feeling of ash had died down.

It wasn’t his skin, either. Just like the wings, it only took a hundred years or so, a few exhausting rounds of shedding for the welts from the sulfur pools to be nothing more than a memory.

(He wondered sometimes, dryly, whether turning him into a crawling snake had been a final blessing from Her.)

In the end, none of those things were the worst. No, it was the Loneliness.

When he’d been an angel, he’d been a part of the Host. He’d had siblings, sort of, friends, even. He’d painted the night sky with partners, he’d spread his white wings wide as they groomed each other. He could still remember, vaguely, the light down floating around like snow. It became the inspiration for the weather, actually. He could see a long primary twirling through the air. Feel the warmth under his finger tips.

(Had he ever touched _his_ wings, back then?)

There was always touch. Always speaking, singing, nesting. The idea of physical forms at the time was shaky at best, so even the edges between angels got a bit blurred. He never felt alone. The word didn’t exist yet.

(Down Below, there was always touch, but it was different. So different. You jostled, tore for the slightest bit of air to breathe, snapped your fangs at anyone who got to close. When someone gets close, they can hurt you. They _will_ hurt you.)

And of course, there was losing _Her_ love. The moment he touched down in his own personal crater in the newly damned Hell, he’d felt it. Or rather, he hadn’t. It had been there one minute, and the next, gone. He hadn’t even realized he’d _had_ it until it was gone.

What he was left with was a dark knot in the core of his very being, something that writhed and squirmed desperately like a skinned snake.

(Like he was doing right now, getting all tangled in his sheets. Caught. Trapped.)

It screamed, constantly, a litany of

_No, no, no!_

and

_I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,_

and 

_I hate you so much._

(It didn’t really matter who he hated. God? Probably. Himself? Of course. It started small, at first, but that would grow, with time.)

He certainly didn’t hold much love in his heart for his fellow demons. How could he, if he couldn’t even love himself?

That part of the loneliness was sickening. He could remember that he _had_ loved them, once. He’d loved all of the angels, but he could remember pleading for those, in particular, but something had changed. They’d all been twisted on the way down, hitting too hard so something jolted out of place. Like bone broken clean through the skin. Like pained animals, they lashed out at each other. 

(You had something sick, rotting, _starving_ in you. The only way to quiet it was to force it on somebody else.)

Crowley found ways to put it to sleep over the years. Corporeal sleep worked for a time, until his body learned to have nightmares. Drinking, too, but he always ended up coming back to himself in the end.

(To a throbbing headache he’d have to miracle away. Right now, his head throbbed. He didn’t notice it. His body was the least of his worries, sweating and thrashing and panting as it was.)

He clawed at the bed sheets, reaching for purchase, for anything. They were smooth, sliding through his fingers again and again. 

_Please, please,_ he thought, reaching for an anchor. His claws dug through his corporeal form, dragged out of the metaphysical plane by his pain.

_Danger_, his body screamed. It wanted to protect him.

(There was no way it could.)

Hollow eyes flashed in his mind, unfeeling dull eyes of those Below. Did anybody even remember? Was it only him? 

(Lord, God, how could She leave him so alone? So alone and so aware of it. They couldn’t remember. Did anyone remember? Was it all real?)

Why did this happen?

Obsidian wings ripped into the room in a flurry of heat and air. Crowley cried out as they got tangled in the sheets. Pain wrenched through his back. Bile rose in his throat and it burned, sore from sobbing. White down mixed with black as his claws tore through the pillows. He choked on it.

He was going down. Falling. Spiraling. 

Couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t think.

(God, help, _God, listen, don’t leave me, why wasn’t I good enough? What did I do wrong?)_

“You made me like this!” he sobbed. Feathers caught in his throat. He wretched around them. “You made me and you cast me out! I didn’t know what I was doing! None of us did!”

_Crawley._

He could remember it all, all of it. 

Everything except his name.

_Crawley!_

That was all he was left with in the end. A broken echo of himself.

Hands on his back. Hands tearing at his wings. He saw a dark hallway, flickering florescent lights, sharp toothed beasts all around him. In him. Teeth in his throat, choking him. His own teeth, thick with blood. Rot heavy on his tongue. Rotting flesh, rotting soul.

(Did they even _have_ souls anymore?)

He lashed out. “Don’t touch me!”

(A threat, a plea. Hopeless.)

Hands on his wings. Firm, but not painful. Not painful, he realized, slowly.

Deep breath. Cool air rushing in. Eyes snapping open.

He was in his bedroom, nowhere else. Hands freed his wings from the sheets and he tugged them tightly into himself, swallowing down his sobs. His head hurt, _Somebody,_ his head hurt. It was bile on his tongue, not rot.

“Crowley!”

(Not Crawley.)

The room was blurry. When had the lamp turned on? Hands settled on his shoulders, pulling him upright.

_Angel,_ he thought weakly. His eyes snapped up. Blue skies.

Aziraphale stared deeply at him, fear etched in his face. Lips tight, brows drawn close. Crawley (_Crowley_) reached out instinctively, then saw the state of his hands and stopped. It trembled, the tips still claws. 

(He would hurt Aziraphale. He always knew that he would, eventually.)

Aziraphale grabbed his hand anyway. Held it up to his lips, planted a kiss gently on it. There were tears in his eyes.

(Why was the angel crying? Crowley must look terrifying.)

“Angel,” he croaked out, but it felt heavy in his mouth. Wrong. Forbidden. Fangs whispered against his lips. He ducked his head low in penance for something, everything. For existing.

Aziraphale pressed the demon to his chest, hand steady on the back of his head. Another fluttered to his neck, settling there. “My dear, my darling, my love,” he said over and over, rubbing those fingers into Crowley’s hair.

The demon swallowed another sob, finding his breath slowly. Cobbling the bits and pieces back together. 

Aziraphale kept up his litany like a prayer, like a rosary, reverently stringing Crowley back together bead by bead. Chain by chain.

_(My dear._)

His soft jumper, soaking with tears as Crowley leaned into his welcoming form. His chest rumbling with unheard words.

_(My darling.)_

The scent of fresh cut paper, of the roses growing in their garden, the spray of the ocean. Crowley’s own cologne, dabbed behind the angel’s ear.

_(My love.)_

He could feel love. Not Her holy, all encompassing love. No, the specific love of an angel. _This_ angel.

(Aziraphale the Guardian. Once of the Eastern Gate, now of the Serpent. He could feel Aziraphale’s presence, gently ugring Crowley towards more pleasant thoughts. Guiding him.)

Crowley clutched onto his angel. His claws were gone. Just hands, those same hands that once set stars in the heavens, that patted the soil gently around the rose bushes in front of their cottage. The same hands that held the angel’s as they watched stars drift slowly across the night sky above the Downs. He could feel the angel drawing those sweet thoughts out of his mind, painting him as the angel saw him.

(Somebody worthy. Somebody who worked hard to be good, despite all factors otherwise. Somebody forgivable. Who didn’t need to be forgiven, but would be anyway, because that was what he needed.)

Time passed, like it does, fairly but sternly. Crowley’s breathing slowed until he didn’t need it anymore. He let it continue, gently, because Aziraphale had matched with him and it felt anchoring. 

His corporation was covered in a sheen of sweat, is limbs and head trembled from prolonged tension. Aziraphale rubbed gentle circles on his back, fingers ghosting ever so slightly against the base of his wings. With his other hand he held Crowley’s head firmly against his shoulder. Crowley nuzzled into the crook of his neck, eyes shut tightly.

“There, there, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, letting something go himself. “It’s alright. We’ll be alright.”

His metaphysical self always ached after one of these episodes. He didn’t really know what to call them. A panic attack was probably the closest thing, but it seemed so very human. Did panic attacks make you feel like your very soul had been thrashed back and forth by a hellhound until you blacked out?

So, that was a pretty bad one. Hadn’t happened that badly in something like five years. He’d kind of thought -- not hoped, demons didn’t hope -- that he’d gotten over whatever it was. But no.

_Somebody,_ he always felt ashamed when he came back to himself after something like that, even when he was alone. The angel had certainly never seen it that bad before. He’d made sure of that. He was still trembling, clinging selfishly to the angel’s jumper, afraid to look up. He knew that once he did, this fragile thing they’d been working on for thousands of years would break. Crowley was cool, he was unflappable. He was, despite all demonic tendencies, _dependable_. But now…

He couldn’t stand any more judgement at the moment.

Despite the screaming protest of his body and soul, Crowley pulled away from the angel. He wiped his tears away -- as best as he could, anyway, what with their annoying crusty drying -- and snatched his sunglasses from the bedside table. Took a breath.

“Right, ah,” he started. He shoved those glasses onto his face with the desperation of a man scrambling for a life ring in the sea. His voice was raw from crying -- screaming? -- and he cursed himself.

“Ssso thanks for that, anyway, but it’s no big deal. Just being dramatic, me, you know how I get--”

His speech stalled when he felt Aziraphale’s hand on his knee. Cautiously, he flicked his eyes up.

There, those deep lines between his eyes. _Not fear,_ Crowley realized. _Worry._

“My dear,” Aziraphale said softly. “We don’t need to talk about it if you would rather not, but…” He squeezed Crowley’s knee, taking a moment to find his words.

“Please know that I’m here. You don’t need to… to joke about this in order to push it away.” He paused, then added, “Or push me away. I’m not leaving you.” A little smile. “I could never.”

Crowley almost believed him.

(It would have to be good enough, for now.)

He tried a smile, but found that his lips wouldn’t listen to him. He settled on a small nod.

Aziraphale sighed, hand firmly on the demon’s knee still. “Well. You must be exhausted.” That was the understatement of the century. Crowley hadn’t felt this wrecked since Satan himself had torn through the surface of the Earth and Crowley had had to stop time.

“Let me make you some tea,” Aziraphale suggested gently. “And then we can sit together in the den. I can read to you,” he offered, a bit shyly. He never offered to read out loud.

Crowley blinked. “Yeah. Okay. That sounds -- okay.”

Aziraphale smiled. He leaned forward slightly, waited for Crowley to tilt his head in permission, and planted a soft kiss on the demon’s cheek.

“I love you, my dear,” he whispered. Warm breath tickled Crowley’s ear. “I love you so very much, and I am so blessed to have you here with me.”

Crowley swallowed thickly and made a noncommittal noise. Aziraphale squeezed his hand, fixed him with a long, loving look, and got up to make the tea. And, of course, let Crowley compose himself.

(They were close, closer than any two beings ever had been, probably. It was this very closeness that let Aziraphale know Crowley needed a moment. Just a moment to collect himself, now that he’d calmed down.)

As soon as Aziraphale left -- leaving the door open -- Crowley slumped over. He took a few shuddering breaths until his mouth wasn’t so dry, then sat up again. He ran only slightly trembling hands through his hair, straightened his sunglasses. Drew his wings back into himself. Swung his legs off the bed, and followed his angel out to the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of writing something similar for Aziraphale, although I think the reasons behind it and the manifestation of it would be quite different. The idea is still simmering, but I don't think Crowley is alone in needing reassurance and support from time to time. They've been through a lot. (At least, in this version of them, they have.)


End file.
